


Grating

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Denial of Feelings, M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The chirp of Murasakibara's phone drags him awake, and even as he’s considering letting it ring itself out the peace is lost, the creeping tendrils of unconsciousness gone like they never were." Murasakibara isn't quite asleep when Himuro calls him, but he finds a way to relax anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grating

Murasakibara doesn’t want to answer his phone.

He’s more than half-asleep, hovering right at the end of unconsciousness and waiting to see if proper sleep will come for him or not. It’s early, still, but he doesn’t have any reason to be awake, and sleep is the most restful way to pass the time until he has responsibilities again. But the chirp of his phone drags him awake, and even as he’s considering letting it ring itself out the peace is lost, the creeping tendrils of unconsciousness gone like they never were. It doesn’t take much effort, after that, to reach over and scoop the phone up, flip it open and bring it to his ear as he sighs for the loss of relaxation.

“Yeah.”

“Atsushi.” He knows that voice, can identify it without the assistance of the contact information on his phone. Besides, no one else calls him by his first same.

“Muro-chin.” He rolls over onto his side. If it’s Himuro he doesn’t need to even attempt politeness. “I was about to fall asleep.”

“Oh.” Himuro’s voice drops apologetic, softer like he can make up for waking the other boy. The futility of it sets Murasakibara’s teeth on edge. “Do you want me to go?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Murasakibara sighs. “I’m awake now. What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the strategy for the Winter Tournament.” Himuro’s voice is  _grating_ , has it always been this irritating? “We mentioned it at practice but I thought some review would be helpful.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Murasakibara says with more casual irritation under his voice than the snappishness that would require effort. “You’ll tell me the day of anyway.”

There’s a pause. Murasakibara can imagine Himuro tipping his chin down so his hair falls over his face, dragging a hand through his too-long bangs to cast himself in deeper shadow. And he can feel the question coming in the other boy’s throat, the offer to hang up and let him sleep.

“Whatever.” He falls back onto his back, spreads his legs out over the entire length of his futon so his feet are off the edge, huffs and shuts his eyes. “Just talk.”

He really does hate Himuro’s voice, he decides as the other boy starts to spill words for Murasakibara’s benefit that he pays no attention to. It’s got a weird resonance to it even over the phone, like it’s charged with electricity and sending prickling sparks down into Murasakibara’s skin. It’s not a pleasant sensation, especially not with the lost edge of rest still on his mind, and he’s grimacing without realizing it, nearly flinching at the tingling heat each word brings with it. He can hear Himuro  _swallow_ , can hear every damp movement of his tongue and lips and teeth as he speaks, can imagine the shape of his mouth around the words as he says them and the moisture of his tongue when he absently licks his lips. When the grind of his words pauses Murasakibara can see the flutter of Himuro’s eyelashes behind his closed eyes, can imagine the motion of the other boy’s throat as he swallows.

Murasakibara sighs, brings a hand up to cover his face as Himuro pauses again.

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks, as if there is any way Murasakibara could fall asleep with the distraction of Himuro’s voice in his ear.

“No,” Murasakibara sighs, and waits until Himuro has started talking again before he reaches down to hook his thumb over the edge of his shorts and slide them down to free himself from the fabric.

It’s not that he’s turned on by Himuro’s  _voice_ , really. The other boy’s tone drives him crazy, makes him feel like his skin is trying to evaporate off his body and his blood is heating in his veins. It’s not  _pleasant_  sensation, after all. But it does happen that Murasakibara ends up jerking off a lot more when he’s on the phone with Himuro than when he’s not. It’s easy to chalk this up to coincidence after the fact, or just to not think about it at all, and Murasakibara has always preferred the easy route. So he keeps his eyes shut, and lets the sound of Himuro’s voice flood into his head, and doesn’t think about why he’s already hard before he closes his fingers around himself.

Himuro is used to talking without much response from Murasakibara, sometimes for almost an hour, so the larger boy’s deliberate silence doesn’t offer anything outside of the ordinary. He just goes on talking, the sound of his words still striking sparks off Murasakibara’s thoughts until the darkness of his shut eyes lights up with imagination, his focus drifting until he’s too lost to shoot down the images before they form. Some of them are memories -- the touch of fingers at his elbow, the weight of the other boy leaning against him when Murasakibara is too tired to push him away. Some are mild inventions, the way Himuro’s skin might shift under Murasakibara’s tongue, the sounds he might make if Murasakibara pressed him up against a wall. And then the real fantasies start, the taste of salt at Himuro’s neck, the shudder of breathing against Murasakibara’s chest, the way Himuro would look pinned down under the other boy’s weight, the shift of his body around the larger boy as Murasakibara pushes into him, the way his face would collapse into shivering pleasure at the touch of Murasakibara’s fingers around his length.

Murasakibara’s skin flushes hot, a precursor to inevitability; it gives him enough time to pull the phone away, hold it out at arm’s length so the faint telltale gasp as he comes is lost before it makes it through the receiver to Himuro’s ear. He stays still for a moment, waiting for his breathing to steady into inaudibility before he brings the phone back in against his ear and lets Himuro’s voice back into his head.

It’s less grating, this time, even as he carefully lets himself go and reaches for a dirty t-shirt to wipe himself clean. By the time he has his clothes back in place he’s starting to drift back to the edge of comfort, in spite of the continuing murmur of the other boy’s words.

He doesn’t realize he’s falling asleep, even when the phone slides from his unconscious grip and tumbles to the bed beside him.


End file.
